


so tired of playing with this bow and arrow

by cyclical (nextgreatadventure)



Category: Sanctuary (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, hotwrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nextgreatadventure/pseuds/cyclical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That takes it just an inch farther than Amanda’s willing to go. Robin is the King of Taking Things an Inch Farther Than Amanda’s Willing To Go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	so tired of playing with this bow and arrow

**Author's Note:**

> apparently I write rpf now. and apparently I now post it elseplaces than on my eljay.
> 
> I think this might be horribly inappropriate and dirty and uncivilized and whatelseisnew but anyway, on the off chance that you're offended by this fictionry instead of turned on like you should be then, you know. you can see yourself home, etc etc
> 
> I guess there are just a lot of feelings (I MEAN DID YOU _SEE_ [THIS](http://www.youtube.com/user/nbcudirect#p/u/0/7_BelomSrvw) INTERVIEW??).
> 
> title from portishead because I listened to them a lot writing this and they are great.

-

 

It’s a pretty autumn day in New York City; a little bit chilly, grey skies that might threaten rain as the day goes on. Not too much different than Vancouver, she thinks. Mid-autumn weather is mid-autumn weather wherever you go. Still, it’s exciting to be back out doing some real press and this is a pretty great opportunity, Rockefeller Plaza right in the middle of Manhattan, right in the thick of things. It feels a little like she and Robin are the kindergarteners on the playground, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of older kids going about their Big Kid business, but she’s got a lot of experience holding her own and seeming taller than she actually is (Robin’s hand in hers always helps).

They sign a few stacks of glossy photos and chat with some gushingly adoring fans, something that always makes her heart swell, always puts her in the sort of giddy, soaring, overwhelmingly grateful mood that just won’t quit.

Robin’s line is shorter than hers, and at one point she’s so caught up with swirling that silver sharpie and chatting with admirer after admiring admirer that she doesn’t notice he’s line-hopped over to hers.

“For my personal collection,” he deadpans when it’s his turn and he approaches the table, holding out the Maxim cover-y glam-shot of Helen Magnus with both hands. “I’m seriously, like, your biggest fan.”

She signs _Robin you dork, I hope you didn’t pay for this xoxo Bossy McBosserton_ and then shoos him away, mirthful. The small crowd around them gets a kick out of it, and really, honestly, that’s one of the reasons why she adores the man: if it’ll make the fans happy, if it’ll make them _feel_ the fact that Amanda and Robin are just as thrilled to be here as they are, he’ll gladly make a complete goofball of himself in front of any audience. And he does it really, really well (okay, they both do). He’s just so happy, so eager to be loved (well, that, and he’s the hammiest ham she’s ever met).

She watches him walk away with a small grin that she doesn’t even realize is curving her lips and when the pretty girl with the blonde hair and the Stargate t-shirt comes up to her she has to blink her eyes away from his retreating back and say, “I’m sorry hun, can you repeat that?”

 

 

So NBC has some social networking site that’s going to interview them. They’re shuffled off into a quasi-green room with wide windows and alarmingly candy apple red furniture to wait.

Robin sits down and leans into the crook of the armrest, props his own arms across the back of the couch, spreads out nice and comfortable. He lets out an exaggerated sigh and looks up at her.

“Nope, gotta find your own couch,” he says, like the smartass he is. “This one’s mine.”

She lets both brows raise defiantly, challengingly, cocks her head, and then she just sinks right on down into his lap because even though people may not know it she’s really just as big a ~~flirt~~ smartass as he is. She slinks an arm round the back of his neck and rests a warm palm and five long fingers, one by one, against the length of his tie.

“Think I’ll cozy on in right here, thanks.”

He lets out a slow breath from the mouth because yeah, okay, he didn’t really expect her to do that, but then he recovers and he’s just grinning. No force on earth can stop him from taking advantage, from slipping his hand back around her waist and letting it rest just a little lower than what might be considered friendly terrain. Definitely no longer co-workerly territory, he knows full well (although they all skirt that line so often that it’s almost normal, almost to-be-expected, now).

“I say we do the whole interview like this,” he says, brushing his thumb against the hem of her top, letting it ride the fabric up a little. The pad of his thumb brushes her skin and that…that’s not—

That takes it just an inch farther than Amanda’s willing to go. Robin is the King of Taking Things an Inch Farther Than Amanda’s Willing To Go.

She sucks in a breath. “You’re incorrigible,” she mutters in Magnus’ voice. She might be blushing, she’s not sure. Either way, he wins. She slides off his lap into the space beside him and after a goodly amount of silence she knocks her shoulder into his. “Incorrigible,” she repeats.

She tilts her head to look at him and he’s got this ridiculously happy look plastered on his face. Like a puppy who’s just torn your favorite pair of shoes to shreds but still expects to be scooped up and loved on.

“You love it,” he mutters, but the last syllable is lost because the NBC direct guy is shuffling into the room and greeting them while someone else who filed in behind him fiddles with the camera equipment.

She giggles and tucks her head into the crook of his shoulder briefly, but then she clears her throat and straightens up because now they’ve got serious, serious work to do.

 

 

It’d be nonsensical to be in New York City and not see a show. They pick up some tickets to War Horse and it’s a breathtaking performance, but about half-way in Robin leans forward a little and scrubs a hand over his face. She nudges him with a questioning look and he mouths, ‘headache’.

They go back to watching the stage but after a minute or two she brings her hand to his back, rubs gentle, soothing circles. He relaxes perceptibly under her touch and when he glances briefly over his shoulder to catch her gaze in the darkened theater she sees something in his eyes that makes her stomach flip. She tells herself she’d give a million bucks to know what he’s thinking even though she thinks she already knows.

 

 

After the show they end up in SoHo at some bar Robin wanted to go to, one that had been recommended by a friend back in Vancouver. It’s dark and smoky and everything seems to be filtered through the amber light of a whiskey bottle. Fits him perfectly. Her? Not so much, but Robin fits her perfectly and so wherever he goes she'll always tag along.

At the bar they do Irish car bombs (“doesn’t leave the building,” he’d told her right before clinking their mugs together and dropping the brimming shot glass in, “doesn’t leave the bar that I desecrated a perfectly good pint.”) and Amanda’s starting to feel loose and warm and the tiniest tendrils of recklessness start blurring the edges of her vision. When she slams the glass back down onto the counter she’s laughing so hard the Guinness dribbles down her chin, slides down her neck, and Robin has a flash of leaning in to drag his tongue up the length of her throat to lick it up.

He needs to stop thinking things like that.

 

 

Later, Robin leaves for a minute to pee and Amanda chats up the bartender like she chats up everyone she sees, and by the time he’s sidled back up behind her she and Julian are well on their way to being new best friends.

“Robin! Julian loves the Blue Jays!” she says by way of introduction, and she’s mid-giggle when he lays a hand on her hip, but the sound dies quickly in her throat because he’s right behind her, pressing into her lightly under the guise of maneuvering the crowd. She can feel the front of his jeans rub against her lower ( _lower_ ) back.

“Oh yeah?” he says. “Well fuck man, let me buy you a goddamn drink!”

He reaches over Amanda’s shoulder for his near-empty glass and he and Julian exchange some more manly chatter but she’s…not really listening anymore. Robin’s fingers are curling into the waist of her own jeans and she bites down, hard, on the inside of her lip because she wants nothing more than to press back against him but she. Absolutely. Cannot.

Her eyes feel heavy.

“Jukebox,” she turns around and mutters in his ear, breaking the spell. “I totally saw a jukebox in the corner. Gonna go check it out.”

 

 

There’s some sort of slow experimental jazzy trip-hop blasting through the speakers when he finally wanders over to her again. She turns around when he tugs against her arm.

“Amandaaaa,” he says. “Come dance with me.”

He’s not as drunk as he looks and she’s definitely not as drunk as she looks, but maybe they won’t acknowledge that because then they’d have absolutely no excuse for the behavior they both know they’re about to indulge in.

She lets him drag her into the middle of the poor excuse for a dance floor and he puts his arms around her waist the same moment she slides hers around his neck.

She breathes out deeply, audibly against his skin. “Gotta be up early tomorrow,” she says. Why does her voice shake?

He laughs. “What, to report to Damian? Come on. We don’t have any more press this week.”

“Maybe I’m tired,” she says defiantly.

“Maybe you should have another drink,” he counters.

“Maybe I’m worried you’ll take advantage of me.” Oh, she’s being bold, now.

This gives him pause. She’s a little worried she’s upset him somehow but then he tightens his hands on her and says, “Not unless you ask me to.”

Fuck. “God, Robin,” she sighs. “I don’t even know what to do with that.”

They sway a little to the music and she finds her eyelids start to drift closed and she leans into him, lets her cheek fall against his. They dance (no pun intended) around this…this _thing_ , a _lot_ , kind of like (he insists at any given chance) Magnus and Will do. Somewhere in the back of her mind she struggles with not wondering what it’d be like to brush her lips against that hollow spot at his neck. She doesn’t consciously let herself think with that part of her mind. Ever.

Except…

“Look I _know_ ,” he says. “I know, this is…nothing’s ever gonna…” He trails off and sighs. “Just…” and his hands tighten again. She can feel his jaw working against her cheek. “Would there ever be,” he starts carefully, and she can practically hear his mind churning to find the right words, getting up the courage to force them out of his mouth and into her ear, “a situation in which I could ask you to humor me?”

Amanda bites her lip again. Her head is spinning, she feels tired and reckless again and this is _Robin_ , she can smell him, sweat and cologne and hops and he's way too fucking young and so incredibly not her type but god she, can she just, be irresponsible for once, can she just _stop thinking_ …

“I’d kiss you softly at first,” she breathes against him before she can stop herself. “But that wouldn’t last long. I’d want to taste you, I’d want you to use your teeth, your tongue.”

No, really. He almost can’t breathe in the next breath he tries to take. He pulls her closer under the soft amber light, in the smoky air of the bar, music pulsing somewhere far, far off.

He’s got about a million things he wants to say (do) to her right now and they all pile up like a backed up computer issuing one-at-a-time commands. “I’d run my hands all over your body. Your arms, your legs, your stomach, your back, I’d push you down and I’d, god, I’d kiss you everywhere. I’d fucking worship you.”

 _Thisisn’tokaythisisn’tokay. This. is not. okay_. “More,” she says, because she doesn’t think she’ll be able to get out more than one articulate syllable. She whimpers a little in the back of her throat and he keeps on talking. She feels speechless and dizzy and _how are they even doing this right now_.

“I’d undress you slowly, so slowly. I’d brush my thumbs against your nipples until I had them hard, until I had you squirming, and then I’d make you open your legs for me.”

Fuckfuckfuck.

He doesn’t stop. “I’d stroke my fingers against the insides your thighs. Would you be ready?”

She’s drawing blood from her lip she’s biting it so hard. Her eyes are shut tight. “Yes.” Monosyllables. Stick to monosyllables and maybe this will be bearable.

“One finger at first, then two. Small circles against your clit. I’d ask you what felt good so I’d know what to do more of. I’d want to learn your body like a map.”

She’s hanging onto him so tightly. Fingers rigid in his hair. It’s a good thing they’re in public because if they weren’t she might be on her knees in front of him right now.

This is so bad. This is so badwronghorrible and she can’t stop.

But something about the fact that they know they can never actually do the things they’re talking about makes her feel like maybe she can enjoy it in a perverse way. Makes _him_ feel like he can be fucking shameless. _Completely_ shameless.

“Would you come for me?” He asks in voice that’s more breath and less articulation.

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Over and over again,” she tells him, barely above a whisper.

 

 

When she finally disentangles herself from him, she tells him she’s going to call a cab. He lets her go without a fight and she squeezes his hand before she heads out the door and somehow it’s okay, they already know this isn’t really going to change anything.

(At least she hopes to god it doesn’t.)

In the cab her cell phone vibrates and she tears her eyes away from the rain-streaked window to look down. It’s a text from him and it says _sweet dreams, princess_. She can’t help but grin like an idiot even though her throat feels tight. The click-clack of nails tapping against the touchscreen fills the still air in the back of the vehicle as she replies: _right back at you, handsome_.

 

 

She strips to her underwear and a t-shirt back in the hotel room, half-heartedly brushes her teeth and then slides between the sheets in the dark. Her body is all hot and still completely wound up like a wire coil on a thin spool and she tries to pass it off half as worry and anticipation over work and press and the premier and half as missing her family so much her chest hurts but she can’t lie to herself quite that well. She considers calling Alan because she’s gotten herself off to his voice on the phone more times than she can count over the years but that wouldn’t really be fair to him at all. She can’t let this touch that part of her life. She has to deal with this herself because it’s her own fucking problem and nobody else deserves the pain it brings but her.

A few minutes tick by in silence and she finally huffs out a breath and takes her arm off of her eyes, lowers her hand slowly to let her fingertips brush the soft skin below her belly button. It’s a suggestive caress but she doesn’t let it go any farther than that because if there’s anything she could do to make this worse, it would be that.

 

 

Except she’s wrong because when the phone rings she blinks her eyes blearily and looks over to see the digital clock reading 4:00 in big red numbers. She slams a hand out to the beside table and brings the receiver to her ear. Her heart’s pounding a little because she hasn’t really slept this entire time, she’s just been dozing in fits and she thinks maybe she knows whose voice she’s going to hear over the line.

“Amanda,” he says. “Hey.”

“Hey,” she rasps.

A few beats pass but it’s not uncomfortable, and for some reason she’s not even really expecting him to say anything in particular.

When he finally breathes out, long and heavy, she does the same.

“Please, just—“

“—yeah,” she finishes for him. She gets it. She hears him groan and god, that sound does things to her. Her back arches against the sheets. “Yeah.”

There’s rustling from the other line and she knows exactly what he’s doing because she’s doing it, too. She shifts her grip on the receiver and lifts an arm up, lets her fingers trail down lips and throat and chest and then she drags the heel of her palm down her abdomen, dips it past her pelvis, past the cotton.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he mutters, longing. “I wish—“

“—I know,” she says, and a moan escapes from her throat, coaxed out by the movement of her fingers, by the image in her head.

She thinks about the way his muscles feel underneath his shirt whens he touches him and about the way his mouth looks when he talks (she watches his mouth a lot, more than she’d ever admit to anyone). Her hips curve up off the mattress a little and she crooks a finger inside, then two, pressing hard.

She thinks maybe he stumbled in from the bar not too long ago, unshaven, a little drunk, smelling (tasting) like thick Irish beer and trying not to be the needy, worshipful man she knows he is. The thought makes that heat in her belly spark and grow, like a cool breath over a hot fire.

“God,” his voice comes into her ear again, strained. Breathy. Beautiful (because it’s all for her). “Amanda.”

She lets out a thready, humming “mmm” noise and god, she’s really, really close now.

This is so fucking bad, wrong, horrible.

Somehow the unbidden image of him this morning, grinning up at her with those puppy eyes and that fucking smile flashes across her mind like a white-hot brand and she comes, whimpering, fingers rigid against the phone’s receiver like an anchor, like maybe if she gripped it hard enough she could feel him through it, like maybe if she gripped it hard enough this would all be okay.

She hears him finish too in the pulsing moments after, when her hearing goes dim and loud and dim and loud the same way a strobe light flashes light and dark, light and dark.

(A few doors down, Robin keeps his body tense, doesn’t let it relax. Not yet. If he’s still enough he thinks he can smell her, if he doesn’t move then maybe when he opens his eyes she’ll be there beside him.)

She lets her fingers play mindlessly back up her stomach in a wet line and then she lets her hand wander out to the sheets, grips them just as hard as she’s gripping the phone.

They breathe in the stinging silence.

“Robin?” she says, a few minutes later. Or maybe it’s hours. Days? Her voice sounds too loud.

“Yeah?”

“Breakfast?”

She can practically feel him smiling and for some crazy reason something tense between them suddenly dissipates.

“Soon as the sun comes up, babe,” he murmurs. His voice sounds sleepy, now.

She relaxes her hands and her body and lets her thoughts drift away. Maybe he’s already asleep when she murmurs back, “Great,” and nestles her head more comfortably into the receiver. “Perfect.”

 

-


End file.
